Inherently Given
by baillierj
Summary: What would Mycroft give Sherlock for his birthday if he really wanted to go all out? (takes place in the universe of "The Breaking Wheel" and "On The Rack" [which I co-wrote with sevenpercent], but will probably make enough sense even for those unfamiliar with the series)


Mycroft raises his brows inquisitively, as he takes in the reaction to the suggestion he has just presented to John Watson.

"No. _Absolutely not_. In the history of bad ideas, that one takes the cake," John announces and puts down his mug of tea on the coffee table.

Instead of his usual chair, the doctor is seated on the sofa where Mycroft had found him upon entering the flat, reading the newspaper. The door to their upstairs apartment had been unlocked, signalling that Sherlock is out of the house. Mycroft was already aware of this, of course, since Sherlock's visage had been captured twenty minutes prior on the CCTV cameras outside Baker Street Underground Station.

The Holmes-Watson household had, curiously but logically, taken up a habit of locking the flat door when they were both present. This had happened sometime after Sherlock had been discharged from his stay at the cardiac ward of University College London Hospital. Around the same time, Mycroft had stopped visiting unannounced. Some of the more novel aspects of his brother's private life he does not wish to observe visually. Or hear, for that matter.

"Do explain your reasoning," Mycroft prompts politely enough.

"He might not seem that way anymore, but he's still rather self-conscious and easily spooked. Putting him in the limelight like that-"

"He has always quite enjoyed the limelight."

John's mouth tightens into a line. "Sure, when he's got a case cracked and he's spouting out his monologues, but what you're suggesting would draw so much attention to stuff that's been difficult that I doubt you'd get anything more out of him than a sulk."

"I happen to know this is something he has always wanted to experience."

"That was before the GBS, wasn't it? This is classic _you_ , you know, arranging these things without ever consulting the person you're going to tangle up in your schemes."

"I will give him a choice. The gift will be at his disposal for one hour. He may do with it as he pleases, or decline the offer, in which case no harm will come to any of the involved parties."

"You've already decided, haven't you, and the only reason you're telling me is that you need my help for the cloak and dagger bit?"

"I admit that was my motivation, yes. It was you who told me to stop underestimating him, to let him define his own limits. Although that may not have been a successful tactic in the past, I am willing to admit your approach may have had some benefit during his recovery."

The last surveillance equipment had been removed from the flat around the same time as the lock on the flat door began to be employed. Mycroft had been considering that step even before John had expressed such a demand – the thought had first occurred to him when the footage had turned explicit. The final sweep had been done during John and Sherlock's stay in Scotland after Moriarty's demise.

"Where is Sherlock headed today, if I may ask?"

"Wrapping up a case with Greg. Mind you, it's just some paperwork and an interview, otherwise, I would have, you know-" John explains sheepishly.

"-accompanied him," Mycroft concludes.

All in all, he finds John's approach to his relationship with his little brother admirably equivocal: on one hand, he has done much to help repair old fraternal issues, but he still governs with an iron will the amount of influence Mycroft is allowed in their lives. Mycroft acquiesces to this, and gratitude is not the most insignificant of his reasons.

Initially, Mycroft had thought Watson quite delusional when the man had announced he was going to try to manage where Mycroft had failed – in getting Sherlock to accept help without resorting to restrictive measures. Somehow, his unorthodox and strange approach had succeeded, and lately, Mycroft had witnessed something he had spent years worrying would never happen: a glimmer of unadulterated contentment in Sherlock, even when the Work is not keeping him busy.

As sternly as John works to keep Mycroft's influence to a minimum, the question remains whether he has simply stepped in to take the role of some sort of a minder himself. Not that Sherlock has needed much concrete assistance lately: according to John, he'd been the first up Ben Nevis, leaving John panting behind while he already stood at the top of the mountain.

Sherlock's current, admirable performance level in other areas of his life is why Mycroft refuses to accept that Sherlock would be too brittle for such a gift as he's proposing. Frankly, he is slightly surprised that his proposition has brought out such a fiercely protective reaction in Sherlock's partner.

"I will not go against his wishes, but I do assure you I am convinced he could well enjoy this greatly," Mycroft says, doing his best to project confidence and reassurance.

John leans his palms on his knees. "Alright, since there's no turning your bloody head. When?"

Sometimes the man's slowness astonishes Mycroft. "Why, on the precise date, of course."

"He'll guess it's a ploy. He hates surprises, and he sort of hates his birthday."

"He will easily deduce something is going on, but presented with a mystery, his curiosity will always get the better of him."

John opens his mouth as if to protest but then he looks as though he's remembering something that would serve as evidence to the contrary. "He does sometimes avoid things he finds unnerving."

"Which is why he has the option of declining."

"After you've gone to all this trouble?"

"Sherlock cannot be guilt-tripped into doing things, nor is he incapable of doing them or declining just to spite me."

John shakes his head. "I had hoped the two of you'd be past all that already."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Three weeks later, _on the date_ , Mycroft finds himself bordering on nervous. It is a large favour he's calling in for this, and if Sherlock decides to misbehave, it will affect Mycroft's reputation in circles he has come to consider as more than just networking. He quite enjoys his charity work, and through it, he has made if not friends, then at least pleasant acquaintances he'd like to retain.

The foyer bar of Cadogan Hall on Sloane Square in Belgravia is unmanned since there are no public functions on at this hour. At least the intricate stained glass windows offer something to look at while Mycroft waits for his contact.

It's approaching noon – which means that there are still fifteen minutes to go before Sherlock is due to arrive. Mycroft has arrived early since he had wanted to ensure all parts of the plan are in place. It had been a short walk from home, but the windy snowfall had proven irritating to navigate. His footsteps echo slightly despite the heavy carpets in the empty foyer as he allows himself to pace a bit.

Through the doors of the main entrance, he can observe the white archway leading up to it from the front entrance quite clearly. Sherlock is likely to be familiar with the building since he is exceptionally well-versed in London's architectural history. A former church, the venue had fallen into disuse after its congregation had moved into a smaller building in 1996. In 2000, the hall had been purchased by the Cadogan Estate and turned into a multi-function cultural centre. From the outside, it looks like a church, the style of which is best described as Byzantine revival, but the white main colour gives it a distinctly modern flair. It's an outstanding venue for classical music. Apart from serving as a venue for all manner of concerts, theatre and other live cultural events by a motley collection of performers, it is the permanent home of none other than the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra.

Just as Mycroft is about to check his phone to make sure there aren't any messages from John Watson announcing that his attempts at delivering Sherlock have failed, a side door opens and a tall man with carefully coiffed, short-cropped hair enters and spots him, raising his hand in greeting.

This is Alexander Shelley, the associate conductor of the orchestra since 2015, who joins Mycroft at the top of the stairs, offering a hand to be shaken. They have met several times before, the latest being at Lord Ashton's New Year's cocktails, where a chamber ensemble handpicked from the orchestra had played a delightful set. As Chair Partners of the orchestra and prominent patrons, both the Lord and Mycroft are among a very small circle of individuals eligible for the sorts of favours today's plan requires.

Shelley checks his watch. "Strings are just returning from lunch. We're expecting a full assembly in about ten minutes. Let me double check: Mozart's third concerto in G major, and the Accolay?"

"Most likely, yes." Helen Ellicott has assured that those had been introduced and practised.

"We do keep the major five violin concertos in our permanent rota, so there is room for improvisation as well if the situation calls for it."

"I doubt he'd go in for the most common ones," Mycroft replies politely. It's a half-truth: while two pieces that could well be counted among the best-known and most spectacular violin concertos in history had once been an integral part of Sherlock's repertoire, according to Ellicott those have been dropped from it, due to his current performance level not awarding the chance to take them on properly. At least that's what the situation had been three months earlier when she had been by for tea at Mycroft's home to discuss the preparations for today.

It's a pity – Mycroft had always thought Sherlock's Tchaikovsky concerto had been a magnificent performance for an amateur.

Ellicott had reported to Mycroft that Sherlock has become quite partial to Accolay's violin concerto number one in A minor, which she'd introduced into his repertoire despite its reputation as being technically only moderately demanding. The violin instructor assured Mycroft that Sherlock has still made immense strides in recovery and would now rate in the ballpark of a professional orchestral performer. What is more, he seems to enjoy discovering pieces he had never practised before the illness, which sounds as though he's reclaiming the meaning the instrument has always had for him.

That notion seems to fit with Watson's strategy of _out with the old_. Mycroft still isn't convinced that that rock climbing – or, more precisely, indoor wall climbing – couldn't have been replaced with something a little less rough-and-tumble, but if that is the only form of physical rehabilitation Sherlock is willing to endure on the side of prowling the streets of London, then so be it.

"I must warn you," Mycroft tells the associate conductor, "that there is a minor, although very potential risk that he may say no to this whole endeavour."

"That is absolutely fine. No harm, no foul on our part," Shelley assures him, "it would just mean that everybody gets to go home earlier than planned."

"I must thank you again for-" Mycroft starts, but then the right half of the heavy main door is dragged open, and a gust of icy wind blows into the foyer.

Sherlock steps in and takes in the sight of the two of them than aggressively ruffles his curls to banish the snowflakes perching there. He stands just inside the foyer, making no move to remove his scarf or to unbutton his coat. His brows are thunderclouds of suspicion.

Mycroft hurries down the short staircase to meet him.

"Ah," Sherlock says with a disapprovingly knowing tone. "I should have known from _the date_ ," he says pointedly. "Is this some asinine birthday surprise, then? My attempts at schooling John as to my opinion on such things have clearly failed. Have you heard of gift cards? Quite convenient for birthdays, _especially_ since they don't require the presence of the person donating them."

"Hear me out," Mycroft pleads, even hastily and begrudgingly adding a "please", because he knows nothing will grab Sherlock's attention better than a bit of grovelling from him of all people. This is all for a good cause, but thank goodness birthdays are only once a year. As often as both Sherlock and John remind him how much his brother hates such trivial celebrations, John has also told Mycroft that he does buy Sherlock presents and take him out on such days. Watson seems convinced that there might be something very beneficial in lavishing attention on Sherlock – not because of his deductive skills, but with the intention of signalling that some people quite like his company. Lord knows Sherlock's ego hardly needs stroking, but on the other hand, it has manifested quite weakly lately. Perhaps John is right in that support and encouragement are still needed, at least judging by the amount of frustration and sulking the good doctor is still forced to endure because it's obvious that not all the effects of Sherlock's illness have disappeared. Maybe they never will, but from the ruins of that experience, at least some good things have risen.

Sherlock truly deserves what Mycroft is offering to him today. Having kept himself together, and being able to defeat Moriarty while still convalescing, is certainly worthy of recognition. Mycroft has been forced to admit that Sherlock has proven his scepticism unfounded at many turns regarding his mental resilience. They do not verbalise their affection and admiration, he and Sherlock, but sometimes more concrete gestures just might be pertinent and serve that intent well.

"You have thirty seconds," Sherlock tells him coldly, glancing at Shelley.

Mycroft is unable to gauge whether he recognises the man from the culture pages of the papers or not. He's not the head conductor – that would be Charles Dutoit – but Shelley _is_ currently in charge, due to Dutoit attending to a visiting professor appointment in Vienna.

"You have told me more than once, that your only regret about not becoming a professional musician is that the performances of an amateur violinist happen without accompaniment. That will now be remedied."

"What _is_ this?" Scepticism is painting even deeper shadows on Sherlock's features.

Mycroft turns to Shelley, who catches on and steps in to help. "Gentlemen, please follow me," he says and makes for the hallway that leads to the entrance to the main auditorium.

Sherlock looks positively glued to the carpet. Mycroft extends an arm. "Let me get your coat."

"I'm quite fine wearing it," Sherlock replies but does unbutton it. He unties his scarf as well, before trailing behind Shelley.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

It's warm inside the high-ceilinged space of the former church hall now serving as the main event space. Seating almost a thousand people at once, fitted with modern acoustic panels and sound and light systems, it is a venue well worthy of the finest symphony orchestras, one of which is currently wrapping up their lunch break. There are reeds being stuck into mouths for softening up, strings being tuned with the help of a grand piano and a clarinet, sheet music being passed around by an assistant, and a relaxed cacophony of quiet discussion going on.

The gallery is empty, save for a window washer. The burgundy velvet drapes of the high windows have been closed, making the space seem smaller, less ceremonial, and thus more fitting for rehearsals. The stalls in front of the stage are filled with chairs in neat rows, the ends of which are adorned with fresh flowers, likely in preparation for an upcoming performance.

The three men enter from the side of the main floor, and Shelley leads them up onto the stage.

Sherlock says nothing until his eyes fall upon a very familiar instrument placed on a small table next to a music stand. The fact that these are located to the left of the conductor's podium must have already led him to a childishly easy deduction. He doesn't turn to face Mycroft, but walks up to his Stradivarius, looks down on it as if to make sure it really is the one he thinks he has recognised as his own but makes no move to pick it up.

The chatter in the hall has died down, probably mostly due to Shelley's entry, but Sherlock is likely feeling as though all eyes are on him. Which is, in all fairness, quite true.

He hasn't bolted yet, which is… good.

This is a birthday present, but Mycroft would be willing to admit that at a pinch, it's also a test of how he fares when under such scrutiny. Some of Sherlock's recent cases have brought him some publicity, and he has seemed to do fine. Even the fact that his and John's relationship has taken a more intimate turn has ended up in the press, which, according to Sherlock, had caused some chagrin for John even though the reaction has been very positive.

' _London's favourite couple'_ had been one of the tabloid article headlines, and the picture snapped by some bystander in front of Tate Modern of John and Sherlock laughing at something either of them had just said, had looked so carefree and lovely that Mycroft had saved the clipping. He would naturally never admit to Sherlock to having done so.

Shelley discreetly steps onto the podium and begins arranging his notes and sheet music.

Mycroft steps closer to Sherlock to prevent all ears in the auditorium from picking up their conversation. "This is not a _performance_ ," he tells Sherlock, "This is for you, and you only."

Sherlock has crossed his arms defensively. Through his open coat, Mycroft catches a glimpse of a familiar shirt – one he'd given Sherlock for Christmas a few years back. He remembers seeing Sherlock wearing it at Harwich. That time, it had hung on his emaciated torso like a nightgown. Now, the fit was perfect – even more so than it had been when Sherlock had first received the garment. Perhaps love is good for the appetite, which is something Sherlock has never possessed in significant quantities.

Mycroft draws a deep breath before he delivers the gist of his marketing pitch. "For one hour, the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra is at your disposal to do with as you please. They may well be able to accommodate requests from a standard classical repertoire, but if you wish to enjoy a recently rehearsed background to your solo, I would suggest turning to those pieces recently mentored by your instructor."

Realisation dawns on Sherlock, and Mycroft receives a glare of disapproval. "So _that's_ why she's been trying to peddle to me that annoying Mozart piece. If Helen's in on this, I assume John is, too? No wonder, then, that I caught him texting Lestrade this morning telling him we were unavailable. I simply assumed he wanted to spend some quiet time at home for-"

Mycroft decides he needs to interrupt lest Sherlock bring up some mortifyingly intimate detail. A part of his brother's tendency to do so may genuinely be due to his challenges in acceptable social conduct, but sometimes it seems that Sherlock enjoys purposefully riling Mycroft up with such comments.

"They'll want to hear your answer soon," Mycroft tells him. "We are cutting into their practice hours, so you might wish to get on," he prompts.

"And what will you do, meanwhile?"

"That's up to you. I would be honoured to act as your audience, or I will retreat to The Canvas on Wilbraham Place for lunch."

Sherlock flicks a dismissive hand at him. "You may stay, but get off the stage. _My_ stage," he adds pointedly, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly.

Mycroft allows himself a slight, composed smile as he makes his way down to the gallery stand.

It seems that his gift has been accepted.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Once the Stradivarius has been tuned and Sherlock had warmed up with some Liszt played alone in the warm room behind the main hall, he walks back up onto the stage.

Mycroft has taken a seat on the edge of the third row of the main stalls. On the seat next to him lie Sherlock's coat and jacket, neatly folded. Sherlock rarely accepts the constriction of a jacket when playing at home, so it was hardly surprising he'd choose to be in his shirtsleeves now.

"Where would you like to start?" Shelley asks.

To Mycroft's surprise, Sherlock requests a relatively easy piece, the _Adagietto_ from Bizet's L'Arlesienne suite. A mere three minutes in length, and belonging to the incidental music to a play, it's muted, slow and tranquil. It is not really much of a solo piece, but Mycroft thinks he knows the reason for such a selection: playing along with the string section will allow Sherlock to get a feel for being accompanied while being able to conceal his initial nervousness by blending in.

Sherlock confirms his suspicions by telling the orchestra and its conductor, with a slightly apologetic tone, that he's suggesting it because he'd like to get a feel for the orchestra before taking on a proper solo. Judging by the expressions of at least those orchestra members which Mycroft can see, this seems to go down well.

The composition starts with a hymn-like string overture, then takes on a slowly building, elevated and dignified air. On occasion, it skirts with minor keys, but mostly it clings onto major, redemptory harmonies. It's not the sort of music Mycroft would associate with his quicksilver brother, but Sherlock does have a tendency to surprise him.

Sherlock joins in after the first few notes. The start could be described as rocky – his bow strokes appear short and jumpy, but Alexander Shelley's calm and patient approach seems to be working and soon his shoulders relax. Mycroft now has to strain to make out the sound of the Stradivarius from the wall of strings. During the slow, meditative phrases Sherlock seems to relax even further, allowing his bow strokes to become faster, sharper and longer. He even turns and leans back slightly as though he were about to sway to the rhythm. During the last minute, he begins to sound like a soloist, daring to bring in his personal style instead of trying to blend in with the other players.

The orchestra gives him a tentative applause after the piece, which does not elicit a smile. Instead, Sherlock looks slightly apprehensive as to what to do or say next.

"Would you like to try to Accolay next?" Shelley asks him and receives a nod. "Mr Holmes mentioned you have recently added that to your repertoire."

A Belgian music instructor, violinist, conductor and composer, Jean-Baptiste Accolay never made it onto the lists of the most prominent Western composers, but his one-movement violin concerto mostly accompanied only by the string section of an orchestra, is a popular composition for the violinists who have not yet reached the peak of their skills. It sounds spontaneous and playful, sombre and triumphant at the same time, and does not depend on technical trickery for effect. It contains an unrefinedly non-cohesive, motley collection of styles, but Mycroft is willing to concede that apart from a horrific, country-music like passage towards the end, the piece does feature some pleasant melodic components.

Mycroft knows as well as Conductor Shelley, that the Accolay isn't a piece symphony orchestras of this calibre would normally bother with, nor is it a piece composed for the virtuoso – more of a tool for a student to hone technique and fledgeling performance skills. This is the biggest part of the favour Mycroft has called on after years of patronage – a piece such as this had to be specially added to the orchestra's repertoire solely for the purposes of this day.

Sherlock leafs through the sheet music placed on the stand assigned to him. He finds the page he must've been looking for, scans it with his sharply focused gaze and then turns the stack of sheets upside down. He must have learned it all by heart, as has always been his habit. He has explained that he wants to quickly memorise the compositions being taught to him in order to focus on listening to his own performance and refining it, instead of having to split his concentration by having to read the pages over and over again.

The orchestra, after receiving a prompt from Shelley, leaps into the energetic, almost operatic overture. Then, after a modulatory section that marks well the transition from the opening passages to the soloist part, it's Sherlock's turn.

His first, low note wavers a little, but it somehow fits with the temperamental, whimsical tone of the phrase. The double stop section comes next, making the sound of the solo part richer. Sherlock manages this effortlessly even though Ellicott had mentioned that he's only been practising the composition for a couple of weeks.

Sherlock is soon halfway through the short concerto, and he doesn't look happy with how he's doing. At one point, he quickly lowers the violin down, signalling for everyone to stop. He then requests to repeat from the _largamente ritenuto_ following a dramatic _con fuoco_ , a section that comes right before a more complex musical sequence filled with trioles. The last part of it, filled with sharps, seems to give him particular trouble, but after three repeats it becomes more fluid and his shoulders pull back slightly, signalling that his frustration is abating. Having the chance to repeat the passage seems to have relaxed him quite a bit since the following scale-like fast section doesn't seem to pose him much of a challenge. After that follows a double- and triple-stop treat, which Sherlock plays slightly more flamboyantly that Accolay may have intended, but no one in the hall is certainly going to tell him off for doing so. This is _his_ moment to mould into what he wants.

Sherlock finally reaches the dulcet, fast, frilly and indulgent passages towards the very end of the concerto, and puts a flair onto them that feels downright melodramatic. Mycroft would expect nothing less from him. This is not the Sherlock of Harwich Manor, withdrawn and diminished. This, after such a long time, is Sherlock rejuvenated and triumphant.

It doesn't matter that these pieces may not match the highest end of his skill level pre-illness. All that matters is that this is _his_ music again, no doubt about it.

Finally, the garish, almost country music-like passage is reached, which Sherlock tackles standing right at the edge of the stage, leaning forward as though seeking support from something invisible as he coaxes a frantic but mathematically precise set of notes out of the violin. The double stops are slightly unbalanced, the last chords of the orchestra still receive a very worthy icing from him – full-length bow strokes that are allowed a stylistic bit of _martelé-_ style scrape to mark the exultant finish to the composition.

When the piece ends, Shelley lets his hands fall and everyone, including Sherlock, let their bows descend.

Mycroft can spot the ghost of a smirk playing at the edges of his brother's lips.

Shelley gives him a smile back, and Sherlock receives a polite applause from the other musicians once again. The orchestra is used to playing with the finest professional soloists in the world, so Mycroft wonders how they feel about practising with a learned, but not world-class amateur. Do they see it as the bourgeois indulgence of a financial supporter, or could it even be a pleasant experience?

Sherlock's technique may not be perfect, but the growing delight in his expression is quite contagious despite the momentary difficulties he has just had.

Mycroft breathes a sigh of relief because this is what he'd been hoping for: to see Sherlock have some _fun_ , in a manner not usually available to him.

Mycroft regrets not having regular chances to hear Sherlock play. He does play for others – though lately much less than he used to – and John, in particular, seems to be privy to almost daily evening concerts, practice time included. Sherlock uses the instrument to channel, among other things, his sadness and his anger, and Mycroft has been at the receiving end of some screechingly bowed protests as to his very existence when he has managed to rile Sherlock up during a visit. Sherlock is particularly fond of using the most dissonant _bariolage_ sections he can find to chase Mycroft out of the flat. At times, the Stradivarius seems like the world's most expensive stress toy.

On the stage, Sherlock requests an A from the oboe to check his tuning and makes a slight adjustment to the E string.

Mycroft checks his watch – there are about thirty minutes left of the hour he'd agreed to with Shelley. That will be enough for another piece, perhaps an even longer concerto. The Mozart Helen has practised with him usually clocks at around 25 minutes; perfect.

Mycroft shifts in his seat. The ten front rows are not fixed seats but hard, surprisingly narrow chairs. He can feel his phone vibrating in his jacket pocket, but he ignores it. Usually, he'd check to make sure it's not from the Cross or someone the likes of the prime minister, but today he has vowed to give Sherlock his full attention. He's tempted to think this is his reward, too, after having a small part to play in helping Sherlock regain his music.

Still, the most important thing is that it is the birthday of his only brother, who he'd almost lost in myriad ways during their intertwining lives.

A thin film of sweat has appeared on Sherlock's forehead and his shirt seems to cling slightly to his armpits. He draws a deep breath, and Shelley passes him an unopened small water bottle, the entire contents of which he downs in large gulps. He looks wired but not tense, focused but not anticipating of danger. His expression has returned to the hard-to-decipher one he had been wearing when he'd been playing.

"Could we do the first part of the Mendelssohn, please?" Sherlock asks, directing his words at both Shelley and to Duncan Riddell, the concertmaster. He now sounds even more like his usual confident self – the one belonging to the days before he'd fallen ill.

Sherlock hardly needs to specify _which_ Mendelssohn; while opus 64 in E minor is not the composer's only violin concerto, it is the most well-known, and one of the most performed concertos for the instrument ever written. It is not an audacious assumption that the orchestra would have it in their repertoire – Shelley had said as much to Mycroft, but since it's such a popular piece, most prominent symphony orchestras could do it in a pinch. It is usually among the very first Romantic era concertos introduced to aspiring concert violinists, and it had certainly been Sherlock's first major one.

It has never been one of Mycroft's favourite pieces; he considers it conventional, unsurprising and suitable for the great masses uneducated in more inventive classical music. For Sherlock, however, it may well be a combination of nostalgia and a tendency for succumbing to sentiment that had turned it into a regularly practised part of his more advanced repertoire along with Tchaikovsky's beloved concerto. Mycroft remembers him practising these compositions when they had both been home in Surrey on school holidays.

Mycroft had heard John Watson humming the opening melody of the first part once or twice, so it might be a reasonably assumption that Sherlock must've played it quite a lot at home, at least before he fell ill.

All in all, Mycroft is surprised that Sherlock would request this particular piece in lieu of something simpler, something that would offer a better guarantee of success. Sherlock does not cope well with infirmity and failure, and the aftermath of the Guillain-Barré had made him positively risk-averse in his attempts to avoid doing anything and everything where his physical deficiencies would be evident. Perhaps that is finally beginning to change.

Still, the Mendelssohn is a bold choice. It may look manageable on paper, but its crisp, singsong soloist passages are merciless to a wavering pitch and nervously shaking fingers. It's a slow flirt with embarrassment, a taunt to perfection, and even the start puts the soloist firmly on the spot since there is no significant orchestral overture; the violinist starts almost simultaneously with the other instruments, launching into a bravura of ascending notes.

Mycroft hears a faint scrape of a chair and the quiet sound of someone's extremity hitting something wooden in the gallery section high above to his right. He hopes Sherlock hasn't heard or made note of this. At least he doesn't glance up towards the source of the disturbance, and Mycroft breathes a sigh of relief.

Shelley turns to face the audio control room window. "Lights, please," he says. Whoever is sitting there probably can't hear him, but they seem to have guessed right what he wants because suddenly the entire auditorium is plunged into darkness. Then, within seconds, a warm-toned spotlight is shone on Sherlock. The rest of the orchestra light up their small, downcast music stand lights. Shelley follows suit on his podium.

Mycroft leans back in his seat after letting his eyes roam around the hall, trying to get his vision to adapt to the change in lighting.

Sherlock raises the violin to his collarbone, throws his head back in an attempt to shift some errant curls away from his eyes, which would work better if he hadn't begun to wear his hair longer. It looks like a veritable mop, now, which is what John had called it once to his face in Mycroft's presence. Sherlock hadn't seemed to mind. He seems to mind very few things John Watson says or does nowadays.

It occurs to Mycroft that the characteristics often associated with the E minor key in which the Mendelssohn concerto is written – young declarations of love, occasional frustrated laments without bitterness, and the desire to resolve into the pure happiness of C major – are quite fitting of Sherlock's mood of recent times. Love seems to make him much more agreeable and adaptable to the world. From Mycroft's point-of-view, it might grate a little into his uniqueness, but Lord knows he deserves some relief from the hardships he's had to endure.

Shelley raises his baton, and the orchestra comes to life. After a fleetingly brief opening phrase from the orchestra, Sherlock launches into the opening melodic theme. His first transitions from string to string are a little stiff, but his pitch is flawless. A series of trioles leads to a double stop scale that crescendos into fortissimo and a short bariolage.

He then gets a brief rest, as the orchestra picks up the same melody and repeats it in a cinematically rich harmony. When Sherlock re-joins the music, he easily makes his way through an easier, slightly slower section consisting of partial scales. A new, complex bariolage then leads to another section of scales, this one almost buttery in its indulgent, serenade-ish quality. The orchestra changes key, too, into the triumphant, relieved G major that speaks of victory over difficulty.

Something about it feels suddenly more moving than Mycroft had been prepared for, and he swallows. He's no longer trying to remember what comes next – he simply allows himself to react, to listen, to enjoy the whole of the performance for a moment instead of trying to gauge Sherlock's mood and worrying about him.

A long road has been walked since the first time Sherlock had picked up the violin after his discharge. None of the three people who had been present at Baker Street on that occasion had told Mycroft much about it initially, but Sherlock's adamancy in not discussing the occasion, and especially the haunted expression John Watson wore when finally giving Mycroft a brief account of Helen's first visit, spoke volumes. It had been devastating, but perhaps of the necessary kind: a forest fire creating new, fertile land.

During a more pointed, accusatory part in the next melodic section, Sherlock hits a neighbouring string, but it doesn't alter the general atmosphere of the passage and he seems unperturbed by the mistake.

Mycroft is relieved. He has suspected that a fear of failure and a hatred of blunders may well have been something Sherlock – and by extension, his tutor – have had to struggle with as he regained his skills. Sherlock has never been a constructive loser or taken defeat gracefully.

As he plays on, Sherlock's gaze seems to become slightly unfocused, his concentration now solely on the music. Had there been a large audience present, he'd be oblivious to it by now. He draws the long bow strokes in a slower section to their absolute maximum in a bold manner, and Mycroft must admit Sherlock has practised diligently since he manages even the short arpeggios effortlessly. Perhaps the more aggressive parts in many concertos come easier to him than many others. Maybe anger gives him the courage to let go of controlling himself too sternly.

Mycroft does not know if Sherlock has practised the entire concerto or merely the first part after falling ill. It doesn't matter. The first part is quite a self-contained composition in its own right. Towards the end of it, there is an intricate solo with Vivaldi-esque tones which Sherlock now plays through with his eyes closed. Mycroft remembers hearing him play that particular section a lot when he'd been younger – perhaps a favourite part?

As the performers near the end of the first part, the opening melody repeats, followed by a hymn-like almost-variation accompanied solely by some delicate woodwinds. Sherlock misses a little finger position once or twice, but then he seems to perk up and pick up on it. His legatos sing like a soprano, the short arpeggios are suitably saw-like, his spiccatos sharp and precise, his detaches a perfect mix of gentle and wild, and Mycroft finds himself jealous at the refined yet somehow still raw skills eminent in his playing.

Mycroft had played the piano as a child, but singularly intellectual pastimes had soon drawn his attention. He had been able to connect to himself and others in other, easier and more conventional manners. Music had never meant to him as half as much as it does to Sherlock.

The aspect Mycroft likes the least about this concerto is the ending of the first part. It's as though the composer had been rather reluctant to stop, and added several alternate endings, one after another, full of what seems like gimmicky technical torture of the violin. At least there are some delectable tremolos before the soloist's part ends, and a dignified, sombre final chord from the orchestra, framed by grandiose percussion that would feel at home in the final act of an opera. The cadenza is technically challenging, building up speed by moving step by step from quavers to semiquavers, and at the end, the bow needs to be positively ricocheting along the string.

Upon the last note, Sherlock raises his bow hand above his head until he lets it drop. The gesture would be grandiose if it wasn't so justified.

His face has been expressionless throughout playing the piece, all energy and focus so very deeply taken over by the music. Now, a smile begins forming, akin to dawn breaking on his features.

Mycroft's heart rate picks up – he knows that within seconds, his claim of there being no audience present will be unveiled as deception.

He stands up in the darkness just before the hall is flooded with light.

It's quiet. Dust dances in the bright spotlight still on Sherlock. He lowers the violin, a slight tremble in his hand as adrenaline begins to dissipate and exhaustion set in.

The minute his bow descends, an enthusiastic applause begins up on the side of the gallery near the stage. Sherlock's head snaps up to witness their parents, John, Detective Inspector Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and Helen Ellicott leaning over the railing, clapping frantically.

At first, Sherlock looks completely flustered and confused, then he bites his lip and looks at Mycroft, frowning.

 _'You'll pay for this_ ', he mouths with a mischievous smile, while the applause continues still. The orchestra joins in, standing up. They, along with Shelley, are aware of the nature of the occasion – including both the birthday and the long road Sherlock has taken to get to this day.

Mycroft looks up to the gallery. The person who is, perhaps, the second most intimately acquainted with Sherlock's difficult journey, has disappeared.

Soon, John Watson appears by the curtains on the side of the stage, and wastes no time in getting to Sherlock. He says nothing, simply encloses Sherlock in his arms and holds on tightly. Sherlock, bow still in his right hand and violin held by the neck in his left, wraps his own arms almost desperately around John's shoulders, and they remain there, entwined, for a long moment. The kiss that follows leaves no one present unaware of the depth of the connection and devotion there.

Once disentangled from his significant other, Sherlock shakes Shelley's hand. He recovers the case of his violin from the warm room and, together with John, descends from the stage to join the rest of the group, who have now amassed near Mycroft's seat after making their way down.

John tells Sherlock that Molly Hooper is in court but sends her love and that he has recorded it all on his phone to share with her later. The same applies to Jonathan Baxter, a surprise asset of Sherlock's during the Moriarty endgame, who is working today at London Bridge Hospital's ITU.

Sherlock nods, still appearing a little overwhelmed.

They all head towards the exit after a few minutes of chatting.

"You're _amazing_ ," Mycroft hears John Watson tell Sherlock in the foyer while helping him into his coat.

Mycroft would never say such a thing out loud, of course, for fear of it giving Sherlock even more delusions of grandeur, but today, after everything he's watched his brother go through and prevail, he couldn't agree more.

– _The End –_


End file.
